The Anonymous Client

40

Fitzpatrick was animated.

“I like it,” he said. “I really like it. Oh sure, I’ve known Phyllis Kemper for years, I’m upset about all that. But damn it, she’s not my client. I really like it.”

“Well, don’t get too excited,” Steve said. “It may sound good, but it happens to be a bunch of bullshit. It’s one thing to try to sell a D.A. a bill of goods, but you don’t have to start swallowing it yourself.”

“But damn it,” Fitzpatrick said, “it all makes sense.”

“That Phyllis hired the detectives, yes. I think that’s a good bet. That she killed Bradshaw happens to be a hell of a stretch.”

“Maybe not. The way you spelled it out for Dirkson sounds logical.”

“A lawyer’s job is to make things sound logical. It doesn’t mean they are. It’s just a theory, Fitzpatrick. Let’s not go off the deep end over it. Remember this. We have the benefit of Douglas Kemper’s story. The police don’t. Of course, I didn’t bring that up with Dirkson. But if Douglas Kemper’s story is true-or rather, if my interpretation of how Douglas Kemper lied to me is true-he was in the apartment right on the heels of Marilyn Harding. Of course, if he’s not lying, he was in there right before Marilyn Harding. That means he either found Bradshaw dead or killed him. And the same goes for Marilyn.

“The problem is, we got two clients here, and despite whatever finespun theories I might try to lay on Dirkson, the fact is one of them probably killed him. The best I can see with this Phyllis Kemper thing is, we got a red herring to play with.”

Fitzpatrick frowned. “Well, at least that’s something.”

Steve stood up, stretched, yawned. “Well, just wanted to fill you in.”

Steve glanced around the sumptuously furnished Wall Street office of the law firm of Fitzpatrick, Blackburn, and Weed. “Nice place you got here, Fitzpatrick. Suppose you’ll miss it if I get you disbarred.”

Fitzpatrick’s grin was somewhat forced.

Steve took a cab back to his office. On the ride uptown he got to thinking about what he’d just said, about what he’d told Fitzpatrick. “One of the two of them probably did it.” Yeah, that was true. And now they were both his clients. He was charged with getting both of them off. Regardless of who did it. Regardless of who actually committed the crime.

That bothered him. That bothered him a lot. Shit. What had he come to? When he’d defended Sheila Benton, she’d asked him point blank if he’d defend her if he thought she was guilty. And he’d told her no. And he’d believed it. Just as he’d believed what he’d told her about the case he’d handled for Wilson and Doyle, the case that had got him fired, the case where he’d tricked the hit-and-run accident victim into identifying someone other than his client, and then it had turned out his client was actually guilty. Sheila had asked him if he’d have done it if he’d known, and he’d said no. And he’d believed that too.

So what the hell was he doing? Here he was defending two clients, one of whom was almost certainly guilty. How could he justify that? Why was he doing it?

Well, he knew why. He was doing it because some idiotic, romantic fool had sent him an anonymous retainer from some plot ripped off from a storybook, and he’d been placed in a position where he had to either defend him or risk being disbarred. That was why.

Or was it?

He’d risked disbarment before. He wasn’t a squeamish guy. If he thought he was right, he’d wade right in and let the chips fall where they may. So he wasn’t in this just to cover his ass. That was too easy an explanation. Too easy a way out. Too pat an answer to a moral dilemma. If he was in this, he was in it by choice. He’d chosen to defend these two people. To try to get them off.

Well, why not? Everyone’s entitled to representation. A lawyer isn’t a judge and jury. It isn’t a lawyer’s place to try to decide if a client’s innocent or guilty. Legally, ethically, morally, Steve had every right to do what he was doing.

So why did he feel like shit?

Steve paid off the cab and took the elevator up to his office. Tracy Garvin would be manning the desk. Steve felt a twinge of resentment. She’d want to pump him for information, and he just didn’t feel like dragging through the whole story again.

Steve realized he was being unkind. Tracy Garvin might be a young, silly, twit of a girl, but why shouldn’t she be interested.

Steve Winslow pushed open the office door and knew at once that he’d been reprieved. Tracy Garvin’s face was animated.

“I tried to reach you at Fitzpatrick’s. Mark Taylor called. Said it was urgent.”

“Get him,” Steve said.

Steve walked into his office, flopped down at his desk. One light on the phone was on, so Steve picked it up and pushed that button. He heard Tracy Garvin’s voice asking for Mark Taylor, and seconds later Taylor came on the line.

“Taylor.”

“It’s Tracy. Hold on for Steve.”

“I’m on,” Steve said. “What is it, Mark?”

“I got something hot I’d rather not talk about on the phone. You in your office?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Steve Winslow hung up the phone. Thank god, he thought. Let it be a break. Something. Anything. Get me off the hook.

Minutes later, Tracy Garvin opened the door.

“Mark Taylor’s here.”

Taylor pushed by her into the room. Tracy trailed in behind him with a steno pad.

“You’ll be wanting notes?” she said.

Steve was about to say yes, largely due to the uncharitable thoughts he’d had toward her earlier, when Mark Taylor said, “No. I’m sorry, Tracy, but this is something I’ve got to talk to Steve about alone.”

Tracy bit her lip, pouted, and went out, closing the door.

“I think you just blew your love life,” Steve said. “What’s so important?”

Mark Taylor took a breath and blew it out again. He shook his head. He did not look happy. “Steve, look. I’m working for you. You’re my client. I gotta protect you. But I got a moral dilemma here.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

“Look, Steve. You know I got a pipeline into police headquarters. Well, that man is very important to me. So important, I don’t want to use his name, if you know what I mean. Well, he gave me some information and it’s hot. The thing is, it’s too hot. It’s burning. And because of that, no one’s supposed to know about it.”

Steve looked at Mark impatiently. “So?”

“So, if I tell you, you’ll know. And if you use it, people will know you know. And they’ll want to know how you found out. And the thing is, this information is so protected, there are only a few sources it could have come from. You see what I mean? There’s a good chance my man’s cover could be blown.”

Steve frowned. “I see.”

“Look,” Mark said. “I know you’re a lawyer. You can’t make any promises. You gotta do what’s best for your clients. But I’m begging you. If I tell you this, if there’s any way you can, don’t use it.”

Steve shook his head. “Jesus, Mark.”

“I know, I know,” Mark said. “It’s a bitch. So?”

Steve shook his head. “You said it yourself. I can’t make any promises. You wanna tell me or not?”

Mark sighed. “I can’t hold it out. It’s a murder case. If I didn’t tell you, and your client was convicted, I couldn’t live with myself.”

“All right, Mark, you understand the situation. You got the information. You wanna shoot, shoot.”

“O.K.,” Mark said. “Pauline Keeling.”

Steve stared at him. “Who?”

“Pauline Keeling,” Mark said. “She’s the best kept secret in this whole case. Well, Pauline Keeling happens to be-or perhaps I should say, claims to be-Bradshaw’s common-law wife.”

“What?”

“That’s right.”

“How’d the cops find her?”

“They didn’t. She went to them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Here’s how I got the story. After the murder, after Marilyn had been arrested and charged, a woman named Pauline Keeling shows up at headquarters claiming to be Bradshaw’s common-law wife. She read there was money found on the body. She wants the money. She claims she was his common-law wife, and if Bradshaw left no will, the money should go to her.”

Steve was excited. “When did she show up? How long has she been in town? Has she been to his apartment?”

“That’s the whole thing,” Mark said. “The way I got it, she hit town two weeks before the murder. She didn’t move in with Bradshaw, she was living somewhere else. Naturally, that weakens her claim. But as I understand it, she had called on Bradshaw at his apartment.”

“Then her fingerprints would be there.”

Taylor nodded gloomily. “Yeah.”

“And might even be the unidentified ones currently on display in court.”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus Christ. Where is she now?”

“Same place she’s been staying since she hit town. In a furnished room in Queens. Astoria.”

“She under police guard?”

“Not that I know.”

“Got the address?”

“Yeah.” Taylor sighed. “Look, Steve, that’s everything I know. How are you gonna play it?”

Steve gave him a look. “How do you think I’m going to play it, Mark?”

Steve pressed the intercom. “Tracy.”

Tracy’s voice showed she was still angry about being excluded from the interview. “Yes.”

“Grab your steno pad and get in here.” Steve looked at Mark, then back to the intercom. “We’re going to make out a subpoena.”